My Bread Dough Days

A poem.
For Boxing day.
Because . . .

The water's there.

The yeast is, too.

The sugar, eggs and oil.

A pinch of salt.

Some scoops of flour.

A spot of manual toil.

Then there it sits.

A work of art.

A dough that's fine and ready.

Just waiting for

The final touch.

The hand that's firm and steady.

It starts to rise.

Increase and grow.

Progressing, moving on.

Then nears the top

Success so close,

Then, suddenly, it's gone.

That hand so sure

That works with care

Deflates all it's achieved.

And in a blink

All progress seems

Impossible to believe.

Again it tries.

Again it grows.

E'en lighter than before.

Again that hand,

Again the push,

The dough is flat once more.

A third time tries.

A third time grows.

Now tasty and perfected.

Achieves at last

It's sought-for goal,

No flaws or faults detected.

At times I feel

Much like this dough.

My progress interrupted.

When wiser hands,

Press me to my knees,

All dreams and goals disrupted.

But praying hard,

I realize

Though setbacks are in store,

I rise each time,

A better me

Than e're I was before.